“Life is unfair” is one of the most common and even cliched explanations and justifications that others give to small children asking why their older siblings can have more candy than them or situations of the like. However, as one ages and matures, this phrase sounds mocking and acquires an emptiness about it. As I have grown and educated myself I have come to the realization that the world is indeed not fair, and if it were fair, it would be a communistic chaos that would soon become totalitarian. However, life is not only unfair, but it is unjust, and it is this last clause that we have the power and human obligation to work on.
I have witnessed and experienced both unfairness and injustice throughout the course of my near eighteen years of life, but one seemingly trivial form of unfairness that has deeply affected me first presented itself to me at the ripe age of five years old. Amidst the naivete of this stage, I came to realize that there was something peculiar about my way of learning: while I was able to grasp concepts just as quickly as my peers, this was not being reflected in my kindergarten school projects. No matter how hard I tried, every time I wrote anything, it was absolutely illegible, and it took me until the 5th grade and beyond to be able to properly hold a pencil with a special grip and enormously loop-handled safety scissors. This, I believe, is pure unfairness as I was given all the resources and support I needed to work on my motor-skill disability and eventually not only have legible handwriting, but to be a self-taught ambidextrous writer and become competitive in an extremely motor-skill-oriented sport: rhythmic gymnastics. Thus, I took this “unfair” quality I was born with and crawled my way out of the struggle with the help of others.
The story of the greatest injustice I have experienced until now I do not write with the same bright beady eyes as the account of my experiences above. This injustice was something that nearly cost my life and torments my mind and body until this day. I arrived at UCLA’s neuropsychiatric unit for the second time (my 9th time in treatment for anorexia) exactly a year after my first hospitalization for my eating disorder. I was having symptoms of aggressive psychosis due to severe malnutrition. There was nothing unjust about this. Yes, there was unfairness in the fact that I was sick, as illness is never fair, but there was no injustice yet, as I was given the same chances of survival as anyone else in my condition by those around me. That is, until the neuropsychiatric team at UCLA took over my treatment and imposed on me what was likely to become a slow and painful death. I won’t go into the details as that could be both triggering for others and are undoubtedly heartbreaking to read, but my point is that there was no justice in this situation. If my parents pulled me out of the hospital, they would be charged with abuse in the form of medical neglect, and they would likely lose custody over me and my two sisters. If I stayed in the hospital, the chances were just as high that I would die. So, my family and I were placed in a gridlock that would end in destruction either way, and it was not our fault, and it was not the fault of destiny, fate, chance, or luck either. This was total injustice, so I am now reacting by sharing my story and doing what I’m passionate about: writing. I am in the process of attempting to help publish an investigative journalism piece which will unearth the horridness of abuse and neglect in the universal mental health system that still remains in wide practice today.
